


Bertie and Jeeves

by anotherfngrl



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Asexual Relationship, Companions, Competent Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, Gen, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29602746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherfngrl/pseuds/anotherfngrl
Summary: Bertie Wooster, valet, finds himself in the service of one Reginald Jeeves, gentleman.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves & Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2021





	Bertie and Jeeves

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a comment fic prompt that just GRABBED me and said, "You will do nothing else until this is written!" So I wrote it. It's quite a bit longer than comment fic, and it's been years since I read or saw any Wodehouse, so I hope the voice is okay!

I, Bertram Wilburforce Wooster, am the last in a long line of proud valets. The last not only because I don't have any young buggers to pass the trade on to, but also because I'm utter rubbish at being a gentleman’s personal gentleman. I did find my perfect gentleman to be the g. p.g. for, and let me tell you, I am lucky I did!

I'd just found myself in need of new employment. My previous employer had gone out on Boat Race Night and rather tied one on, and as a result had found himself in a bit of the soup vis a vis policemen and their headgear. I'm told he was quite easy to find afterwards, owing to the splendid purple trousers he was wearing.

Mr. Glossup had come out of the scrape okay, with only a fine to pay, but one of his aged relations found my services to be 'quite disastrous and no longer needed'. I suspected this had something to do with my having been the one to acquire the aforementioned purple trousers. So Mr. Glossup was taken to a relative's country estate and I was on my way round to the agency to inquire about new work.

"Again, Bertie?" the bloke at the Junior Ganymede, Ray, who hands out assignments said when he saw me coming.

"Boat Race Night has been the downfall of many a young gentleman," I sighed, feeling rather moro- mor-awhatsit. Rather more hopeless, or the like.

"We only have one assignment available," Ray said with a frown. "Now ordinarily I'd never send you on a job like this, but he was very specific that he wants someone there when he wakes up, and you're the only one about and unattached in the predawn today. This gentleman... he's very exact. Particular, you might say."

"Oh, might you?" I asked. "Well, he'll get some satisfaction out of firing me anyway, I'm sure." I was, dear reader, somewhat lacking at that particular moment in my usual joie de vrie. "Sometimes I really don't think I'm cut out for this valet-ing lark, Ray."

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You're a wonderful companion, Bertie. All your gents say so. And you've got a great spirit. You're just not the sort of... steadfast bastion of tradition most folks are seeking in a valet. We'll find you a match. Don't give up."

So I took the card with the gent's address- Reginald Jeeves, located at Berkeley Mansions. Should be easy enough, I thought. So I toddled myself over and rang his bell.

A tall, imposing gentleman with an expression like a stuffed frog greeted me. "Hello?" he said, in a tone someone might use to greet a dog that had just run into their front room with its jaw clamped down on a rabbit it'd just found in a mud pit. Which is to say, err, not fond. We were not off to the best of all possible starts.

"Err, Bertram Wooster, sir. You can call me Bertie. I'm given to understand that you're in need of a valet?" I asked nervously. I scrubbed my palm across my jacket to wipe the nervous sweat off, and it was at that moment that I remembered my previous gentleman had wanted me to coordinate with his purple trousers. I was wearing rather a loud outfit, even by my standards. Compared to this man in a sensible navy suit, I’m afraid to say I probably looked rather more like a lunatic than a valet.

But Mr. Jeeves shook my hand, showing me inside. The place was immaculate. You could hardly tell a bloke lived there at all, and from what I knew of his previous valet, Brinkley, that wasn't due to an excess of carefully done valeting.

"So, what'll you be needing from me, Reggie?" I asked as I looked around. I couldn’t see a single obvious task, from the living room.

The stuffed frog look was back. "Jeeves, if you don't mind too terribly, Wooster. Even my dearest friends call me by my surname."

I shook my head. "That's not going to do at all," I told him firmly. "I'll call you Jeeves all you like, but you're simply going to have to address me as Bertie, or I'll have no idea who you're talking to!"

Some of the stuffedness went out of his frog expression. "Very well, then, Bertie. I keep a regular schedule. I like breakfast at half past six, lunch at noon precisely, and dinner at six on the dot. I take most of my meals alone in the flat, and spend a great deal of time here reading or playing the piano," and I had spotted the  _ beaut _ of a piano lit up in the corner, and I felt my hopes of sneaking in a quick play when he was out being abruptly dashed, "though I sometimes spend afternoons in the library. I take a walk after lunch, to aid in digestion and ensure regular exercise. The household accounts are recorded in a ledger..." he led me into the kitchen area, but I'll be frank and admit not a lot of what he said sunk in. I was pretty overwhelmed. The gent had his household organized better than any butler I'd ever met, in  _ spite _ of his apologies over the mess Brinkley had left.

I soon found out why Brinkley had left his employ. "I am a tolerant and understanding man, Wooster. Ahm," a gentle cough, like a sheep clearing its throat on a far away meadow, "Bertie, my apologies. But I will not abide cruelty. When I saw the way Mr. Brinkley treated his young lady friend, I knew I had to extricate her at once and then terminate my own connection to the man."

I nodded along in agreement- I'd known Brinkley was a drunk, but I hadn't realized he was rough with women- that sort of conduct goes straight against the Wooster Code, and I'd be tempted to smack him across the mouth the next time I saw him, on principle- and then Jeeves left me to get settled into my area and familiarize myself with the house.

It was after I'd done that and wandered into the living area that I heard a doorbell and became aware of a peculiarity about my new employer that he'd failed to mention.

Mr. Jeeves had described his life as a rather isolated one, dominated by routine. What he'd failed to mention was that, hermit-y as he might so desire to be, there were quite a few fellows in his circle who'd known him in school and called upon him regularly now. Usually for help.

One such fellow of prior, schoolyard acquaintance with my new employer was a fellow named Augustus, or Gussie, Mannering Phipps. He showed up that day raving about his aunt opposing his marriage and rather begged Jeeves to sort him out.

Jeeves offered him a solution, but it all rather hinged on Gussie being willing to go and visit a different aged relation, convincing said a. r. to join in the caper and thus win over both the aunt in question and the girl's father.

Gussie was adamant that he could do no such thing- the poor fellow positively trembled with the very idea- and though Jeeves didn't tremble outwardly when asked to do it in his stead, I rather got the impression from the back of his head that his own thoughts about the prospect were of a rather trembly variety.

"I'll do it," I offered, unthinking. I immediately cursed myself- I had been bringing in tea, and was meant to be invisible. Certainly I wasn't meant to invite myself into the conversation. Only, they had a problem. And I wanted to help.

But Jeeves was a very proper sort, and the valet joining the conversation was a very  _ improper _ thing to do. I thanked my stars I'd at least changed into my uniform before serving tea- this might go down as the shortest employment ever set up by the Junior Ganymede (a record previously held by myself as well, I’m ashamed to admit) but this time I'd hopefully arrive at my next assignment looking like a valet instead of an escaped circus performer.

I was rather shocked when he turned to me and asked only, "You would?"

“Of course,” I said- I’d dug myself in, I might as well help. “Aged relations, ones that aren’t mine, anyway, tend to find me charming. I’d be happy to speak to the lady in question on your behalf.”

At Jeeves' suggestion, I joined them then at the table. A few changes were made to the plan to account for me being a stranger to the lot of them, but soon we had one ready to go. And it went off without a hitch- I must say, it felt jolly good to really be helping people, for a change. Plus, I thought Jeeves and I got on rather well, in the heat of the moment. Crisis inspires a sense of fellow feeling, and all that.

Our day-to-day went decidedly less smoothly. Jeeves was so exacting about his meals that he took to simply coming into the kitchen and showing me how he wanted them prepared. That quickly turned into him telling me to do the shopping for my meals along with his, so that I could sample what he was cooking and understand why it was done a certain way. I learned rather a lot, but felt like a failure the whole time- what kind of gentleman's personal gentleman needs their gentleman to show them how to make eggs?

Jeeves was a gentleman, though, and he never shouted or got short with me when I struggled. Eventually, we moved on to him supervising while I cooked, and even once I had the hang of things, he sat in the kitchen and kept me company, officially with an eye to making sure I didn’t burn the food but mostly just companionable, while I cooked. Breakfast shifted from a tray at 6:30 to a shared meal at 7:30 to account for his need to get up and ready for the day before joining me in the kitchen, and he didn't say a word when I moved lunch to 12:30 to accommodate the change and make sure he had an appetite for the midday meal. Indeed, he asked not a question when I didn't call him at noon, that first day, and only smiled at 12:30 when I announced a cold lunch of sandwiches was served, that day and each going forward.

We fell into something of a routine, after that. We'd wake and meet in the kitchen to fix breakfast, eat together in that room, and then I'd go do the shopping. I'd come back, tidy up a bit, and prepare a cold lunch while he saw to his reading or his music. Then after lunch, I began accompanying him on his walks. It was a small thing, at first- I'd changed my mind about supper, and wanted to pop round to the shops. The shop was on his usual path, and I asked if he might mind a bit of company.

The next day, Jeeves mentioned, very casually, "I'm going to leave on my walk now. If you need to pick anything up."

I didn't, but something told me he wanted the company, so I said, "You know what, by jove, I do!" and gathered our coats.

Over the course of the next few days, I deliberately forgot some ingredient for dinner, all for the justification of accompanying him. For all the folks who sought Jeeves out needing his help with things, the cove seemed rather lonely, and I quite enjoyed toddling around London chatting with him, though I worried he was going to think me quite barmy after an entire week of claiming to have forgotten some bit of supper.

I just dispensed with the pretext altogether after that, and he still seemed quite happy for the company.

After his walk, Jeeves usually went out- more frequently to the library or a bookshop, sometimes his tailor for another suit I was quite convinced was identical to the ones he already owned, but twice a week he spent at least an hour at his club, the Drones. Apparently, his school chums quite worried about him on his own so much, and if they didn't see him twice a week they were apt to get into all sorts of scrapes and messes in pursuit of dragging him out of the flat. He'd decided it was easier to give in, and so Wednesdays and Saturdays he spent the afternoon at the club.

It was during one of those days that I, finished with the laundry, indulged myself in having a bit of a sit down with the old ivories. My mother taught me to play as a child- she was a ladies maid in a big house, and they sometimes had her play for parties. Some of my fondest memories take place on a piano bench.

I must've been entirely capti-whatsit, because I was completely shocked to hear my employer cough discreetly behind me. "Do you play?" he asked.

"Bit rusty, but I did once. Learned from my mum," I confessed, worried I'd found the limit of Jeeves' indulgence. I wouldn't have harmed the piano of course, but it was a beautiful and expensive piece of equipment, and I had not asked his permission to play it.

So I was surprised as all get out by what he said next. "Then I need your help with something," my unreadable employer announced, going quite suddenly to his bedroom.

He returned with an old folder of music. "These are some of my favorites," he explained. "But they require two to play."

We spent the rest of that day learning to work around each other, on the piano. It was quite a spiffy bit of fun- I hadn't played with anyone else since my mother.

After that, we spent at least one afternoon a week playing together. I was chuffed to spend time with him, not having any friends I felt particularly close to, and I liked to think he felt the same.

We'd play until I excused myself to prepare supper- again, he would often insist on doing the cooking himself to show me a new recipe, or keep me company while I cooked. Then I'd serve dinner- in the dining room for once, just so it got a bit of use- and we'd settle in for a quiet evening.

We'd been at this close to a year when Jeeves said to me one day, quite out of the blue, "I don't like eating alone."

We were sitting together in the kitchen having breakfast, so the statement struck me as something of a non-sequitur.

"What, am I not charming enough company for you?" I asked, my stomach sinking. There was only one way I could see this conversation going- my gentleman was going to find a wife and get married.

I would miss this job more than any other. I never forgot our places, or my responsibilities, but in my heart of hearts, I didn't think of Jeeves as my employer anymore. Rather, I thought of him as my best friend.

"You are," he said, looking up from his eggs to face me, those deep baby blues alight with sincerity. "I don't want to eat supper alone anymore. I want you to join me. Breakfast and lunch we do informally, and so we eat together. But even if we're in the dining room... I want you there, with me."

"I can't serve and-" I started to argue, thoroughly bamboozled by this turn of events.

"Bring the dishes out. Put them on the table. Plenty of middle class housewives do it," Jeeves declared.

I was decidedly not a middle class housewife, but I thought I got what he was getting after. "You want to have dinner together?" I checked.

"Yes, please. Bertie..." Here the poor chap rather struggled for words. "I find I have begun to regard you rather less as a simple employee than as... a friend."

I reached across the table, heedless of toast crumbs on my fingers, to squeeze his hand. "Me too, Jeeves, me too."

My role has shifted a bit from what I expected, in the early days. Jeeves and I eat together, and walk together, and when I had a hankering to see America we took a trip, just like I accompany him when he wants to go cruising. I invited him out to eat on my night off one week, and somehow that turned into the two of us dining out twice a week instead of eating at home. And Jeeves claims to hate being seen with me in my idea of 'fashion' when I take off the uniform for our dinners, but I've managed to talk him into subtly striped socks. I'm hopeful that non-black ties are next on the horizon. And, as I've told Reg, his white bow tie for formal functions doesn't count.

Yes, I call him Reg now, when we're alone. Because there are a few exceptions to the Jeeves rule: family members. And somewhere along the way, that's what we became.

**Author's Note:**

> This was so fun to write! Let me know what you think.


End file.
